


#choosefuture

by heavensfallingaroundus, soft_science



Series: #sponcon [2]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Crack, M/M, napapijri - freeform, sponcon as erotica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26612095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavensfallingaroundus/pseuds/heavensfallingaroundus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_science/pseuds/soft_science
Summary: “N-A-P-A-P-I-J-R-I,” he enunciates, discreetly peeking down at the label only once or twice.The story of another morning, a jumper, and sourdough bread.
Relationships: Taron Egerton/Richard Madden
Series: #sponcon [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1935931
Comments: 22
Kudos: 34





	#choosefuture

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, we wrote another story based on the fine work that Taron does with promotional content… this time with high-end, casual sportswear.  
> As usual, so much love for both him and Richard ( ~~well, maybe just fractionally less for Richard~~ ), even if we sometimes make fun of them. We love them. Promise.

“Alright, today’s the day.” 

Taron makes his declaration at 10 in the morning, a little while after breakfast. Richard is reclining on the bed, mercilessly bending the creased paperback spine of _From Russia With Love._ He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond.

It’s been a beautiful morning; an early breakfast in bed, slowly getting dressed but then lounging about doing nothing much, commenting on Jack’s stories with stupid filters, occasionally trying to snuggle under Richard’s arm and interfere with his reading. Just a regular Saturday. 

But now, there’s something on Taron’s mind.

He’s picturing the jar in the kitchen where the scary greying goop that Hugh Jackman and the entire Internet insist on calling a ‘sourdough starter’ is slowly… what’s the word? _Growing_? _Learning?_ It makes him uneasy. He wants to be on the same team as the starter, but so far it seems like it’s resisting his friendship. He feels like the starter and the leaven he made with it last night might be conspiring against him. He knows he’s got to mix the dough in the next hour to give it time to rest, time to rest a few more times, (lots of resting) and then time to rise. Therefore, today of all days, time is most definitely of the essence.

This will be their third try at sourdough, and he’s running out of excuses to put Hugh off. Sooner or later he’ll need to have some results to show for his and Richard’s efforts. The first time, he hadn’t fed the starter often enough at the beginning, and the dough simply refused to rise. The second try was a total wash too, due to hubris—he’d thought he could pull the whole enterprise off without a dutch oven. What. a. fool. 

But this time, as a team, Taron knows that he and Richard can succeed at baking the perfect boule, like a proper gay power couple doing proper Cottage Gay™ pandemic things together. The stars are aligned, today, he can feel it. All the proper tools are all at his disposal. They cannot and _will not_ fail.

“Yeah love, sure.” Richard still doesn’t look up from his book. “It’s been a week, yer goop’s ready, right? Go for it.” 

Taron squints at him, then clears his throat. Richard looks up at him quizzically.

“Yeah… I don’t think you realize what’s at stake here, Madden.” 

Richard quirks an eyebrow at him. 

“I need to see a much deeper level of investment from you regarding this bread.”

Richard’s face breaks into a grin and he sets his book down on the nightstand, right next to a teetering stack that includes Eckhart Tolle’s _The Power of Now_ , a hardcover copy of _The City and The Pillar_ , two Dan Brown novels, and something called _The Complete Book of Abs._

He’s giving Taron his full attention now. “I’m invested! So invested. I get it, this is important. Ye need tae win at bread.”

“ _Okay_ , it’s not about winning, it’s about—” Well, alright. Perhaps it _is_ about winning. But Taron’s never going to admit that. “It’s about doing something really well, together.”

“And impressing Weapon X.” Richard waggles his eyebrows. “This bread needs to meet the approval of The Wolverine, obviously.” 

Taron rolls his eyes. “Obviously, of course.” He’s given up trying to downplay anything related to his various crushes, it takes way too much energy and Richard sees right through it, anyway. 

“Right.” Richard rolls his eyes too, smirking. “Let’s bake this bread then, shall we?” He bounces up from the bed, clapping his hands and rubbing his palms eagerly together. “Just gunnae grab a wee smoke first, back in a jiff.”

“Oh my god, babe, do you _have_ to?” Taron groans, immediately shivering at the chilly gust coming from the now very much open balcony door. Richard’s already stationed at his customary spot, leaning in the doorway, lighting up and guarding the flame against the wind with a cupped hand. Apparently, the answer’s yes: he _has to_.

“C’mon, duck, one cig,” Richard replies as he puffs a bit to start it. Unapologetic as ever. Lucky he looks so good while smoking, damn him.

“Yeah, yeah, alright, whatever. You know what, then? Since you’ve decided to freeze me to death this fine morning, I’ll put on my new gear.”

“Your ‘new gear’?” Richard asks, looking surprised. He takes a long puff off his cigarette, hollowed cheeks and intense gaze. Seriously. _Damn._ Him. “Pray tell, which gear are ye talkin’ about, now, love?” he asks, as he’s blowing out the smoke.

Seriously? Taron’s been going on about his new partnership with Napapijri for weeks, now, almost non-stop. How’s it possible that— _oh_. “Ha-ha, _very_ funny, Madden.”

“Surely you don’t mean that very famous outerwear brand with the unpronounceable name?” Richard taunts him. “Do ye even know how it’s spelled?”

Oh, _please_.

Already halfway into the closet, fishing for a jumper inside a drawer, Taron raises an eyebrow: challenge accepted. “Course I do. You giant arse.”

“Go on, then. Prove it.”

Ah, fucking hell. Is there—ah, thank God. A label on the outside of the sleeve, attached to the seam, small but definitely readable, even without his glasses. “N-A-P-A-P-I-J-R-I,” he enunciates, discreetly peeking down at the label only once or twice.

“Sure, Duckie. _Sure_ ye knew that off the top of yer head,” Richard teases benevolently, crushing the cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the balcony table and finally, _finally_ coming back into the bedroom. Annoyingly, he doesn’t shut the door.

“How bloody dare you,” Taron says, fake-offended, as he finds himself immediately wrapped in Richard’s arms. He stands on his tiptoes to kiss him more easily. “I take my job _very_ seriously, thank you very much.”

Richard chuckles, moves a hand up to cup the back of his head and kisses him again. It’s nice to kiss him even when he tastes of cigarettes and dark roast. “Course ye do. I remember how excited ye were tae take those pics with Charlie, two weeks ago.”

“I was, and I can’t wait to see them. We shot in several of my favorite scenic Welsh locations, you know. Places close to my heart, in the countryside surrounding—”

“I know, love.” Richard’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “The countryside surrounding your beloved hometown. You know I do pay attention.” Taron has to admit that he does. He’s a good boyfriend, bless him.

“They’re going to be great. They should arrive any day!” Taron exclaims, excitedly, just before shivering, full-body, from another spot of autumnal breeze hitting the inside of the bedroom. Richard runs hot, he’s always fine with a draft. “C’mon now, James Bond, piss off,” Taron says affectionately, raising on his toes once again to kiss the tip of Richard’s nose. “I’m cold. Want to get this on.”

It’s a luxurious number—a [burgundy crew neck wool/poly blend jumper](https://www.napapijri.com/shop/en-gb/npj-eu/men-clothing-knitwear-jumpers/crew-neck-jumper-dain-na4emr?variationId=R54), soft as they come, perfect for autumn. Not perfect for baking bread. But. You know. He’s making a point here: he’ll rep the brand, and all its ridiculous Norwegian lakes imagery, if it’s the last thing he does. Even if the jumper does get covered in flour and bits of dough and he needs to send the thing to the dry cleaners. 

“I like the colour,” Richard says as soon as it’s on. He’s running both hands over Taron’s chest, feeling the material—but really, actually, probably, feeling Taron’s chest underneath. 

“Yeah? I can ask them if they’ll switch the dark blue one I ordered for you for another burgundy one—I’m sure they won’t mind.” They can match. It’ll be cute.

“Looks better on you, really,” Richard replies, kissing him again. “But it’d look even better on that chair.” He pauses for a second, looks at the chair. “If you took it off, I mean. Not like the chair has any need for expensive knitwear.” Richard sighs. “You know what I mean.” God, he’s sweet when he waffles.

“Are you asking me to get my kit off for you, Richard Madden?” Taron asks, in his signature camp voice, hand to his chest and a raised eyebrow. “You try to freeze me to death, then you want me naked? Nu-uh, loverboy. We’ve got to _bake_ , now, remember?”

“Umm,” Richard fake-ponders, fingering the edge of Taron’s jumper and then pushing it up, along with the white cotton T-shirt underneath. He strokes across Taron’s abs with the backs of two fingers, light and tentative, seemingly without purpose. “Bake? Don’ think you’ve ever mentioned baking, lately. Is that a priority?” 

Once again, very funny. “C’mon, Dickie, _please_. I’ve been wanting to have this bread for weeks, now. I’ve even bought the nice stinky French cheese you like for the occasion. I want to bake it, photograph it—” 

“—send it to Hugh, get praised for it,” Richard adds, helpfully.

“Yeah, exactly, and then proudly eat it. With you.”

“Alright, but can’t we jus’ go get a loaf from the bakery, like last time? We can say hi to that wee lassie who has that massive crush on you. It’ll make her day.” Taron can’t help but roll his eyes. Richard smirks. “Of course, all this after I’ve sucked you off.”

“Oh?” Taron tries to cock one eyebrow in skepticism, but they both pop up, dammit. Double eyebrow. Double surprise. “That’s a bit forward, now, don’t you think?” he says, ironically, as he casts his mind back to the day this whole sourdough endeavour actually started—the day of the Banana Crisis, as he’s taken to calling it. 

(He’s always made sure they have at least TWO bananas in the house, since that fateful Sunday.)

“Yeah… I cannae explain it. This jumper just makes me want tae suck your cock,” Richard says, nonchalant but with a twinkle in his eye. That, somehow, makes him look even hotter. Fuck. Him.

Actually, no. Not fuck him. Not now. 

Now, bake bread. Later, fuck. 

C’mon, Taron, focus. 

He makes another plea. “Babe, please. Bread?”

“You’ll have tae take this off to bake, anyways, right? Don’ want tae get it all dirty an’ all. Let me help you, hold on…” Richard says, as he starts pulling the jumper upwards, encouragingly.

“Oh my god, you’re impossible, you know that?” Taron says, straightening the jumper back down and pressing his index finger into one of Richard’s (magnificent) pecs. “And the answer’s no, by the way. I’m keepin’ it on. For baking.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. This garment really resonates with my values, you know, which right now include making a killer sourdough.” Taron stops and really considers the jumper for a minute, then tries his best to explain. “It draws a close connection between my attachment to my roots—i.e., this lovely town of Aberystwyth, Wales, which has been our home for the past few months—and Napapijri’s unending connection with its DNA.” 

God, he really felt that one. Nailed it. So why does Richard look so baffled?

“What... the fuck does that even mean?” Richard asks, curiosity and disbelief in those gorgeous eyes. “Yer ‘DNA’?”

“No Richard, _their_ DNA. Its DNA. Napapijri’s, you know… DNA.” 

“Which is what, Norwegian?” He pokes the little flag on Taron’s chest. “That’s quite cute, actually.”

Right, he’s just taking the piss, now, isn’t he. “Fair enough. Feel free not to appreciate me being a good breadwinner, I guess,” Taron says, dramatically rolling his eyes and pulling his sleeves over his hands, feeling the lovely wool and polyamide mix on his knuckles, too. Absolutely amazing. Both durable _and_ comfortable. “And speaking of bread, shall we?”

“Can I show you something first?” Richard asks, in what Taron thinks of as his coy voice. One of his coy voices, actually. This is the softly cajoling one. It’s dangerous. “I’ll just show you, and then you can decide if you still want tae bake?”

“I _will_ still want to bake, don’t worry,” Taron says, confidently. “But sure, darling, what is it?”

“You have to close yer eyes for it. It’s a surprise.”

“You’re in a funny mood today, aren’t you?” Taron chuckles, but obliges all the same.

“Alright, gimme yer hand,” Richard prompts. Taron reaches in front of him and feels Richard’s fingers close around his wrist. Seconds later, his palm comes into contact with soft cotton and (fucking hell, Taron should have known) what he can only assume is Richard’s very hard dick underneath.

“Oh,” says Taron. And he hates how breathless it sounds, but this is what happens every time he discovers that Richard Madden is hard for him. It’s the rules. It’s just how his brain works. Or doesn’t work. Because it always stops working, whenever he’s confronted with Richard’s blatant desire for him. 

He doesn’t bother trying to say anything else, he knows it’ll just come out stupid. With his hand still over Richard’s cock, now kind of mindlessly, instinctively stroking the length of it, Taron opens his eyes.

“What’s the verdict, then?” Richard asks, looking pleased with himself.

“Rich…” Taron still tries to object, even as his thumb grazes the head of Richard’s cock through the light cotton of his trackies. Fuck.

“Tell you what—I’ll make it easier on ye.”

“I’m listening.”

“Let’s have you keep your special jumper on. _Just_ the jumper. Because, well, ye’re so fucking sexy in it, love. It’s the perfect weight for both an outdoor activity or a quiet afternoon indoors.”

Taron nods, because it’s true. Richard actually has been listening, it seems.

“Or, in our case, both! Unless you want to close that fucking door, that is?”

“Nah,” Richard replies, shaking his head. “It’s bracing.” He leans in, as if to kiss Taron, but stops a few breaths shy of his lips to murmur in that smooth, low voice of his. “And don’ worry babe, I’ll keep you warm.” 

“Fuck you, okay, yes, yes, alright.” Taron gives in. “I suppose we _can_ fuck now, and bake bread later, and have the balcony door open. Fine.” And it is fine, really. He’ll still get to bake, while still buzzing from the high of one-to-possibly-several orgasms. Not a hardship at all, and technically it also levels everything up by about ten gay power couple points.

Richard is rocking against his hand now, and pretending as though he’s not doing it. Looking right into Taron’s eyes, nodding like a good listener, while pushing his hips forward in a slow, self-indulgent rhythm. 

Taron’s the one to lean in then, brushing his lips against Richard’s in the lightest of kisses. “I love it when you’re needy and try not to show it.”

Richard laughs softly, hiding under his lashes and getting hold of Taron’s bicep to steady himself. “Shhh. No’ needy. I just think ye look hot.”

“Probably because I’m radiating a positive, future-oriented mindset,” Taron muses, giving Richard a firmer stroke and coaxing a very soft moan from him. “While also embodying confidence and visionary values.” 

“Yeah, that’s definitely it,” Richard nods. “Plus, I get hard for sustainable design.” 

“Clearly.” Taron drops another light kiss against Richard’s lips, and this time he notes that Richard barely keeps himself from chasing after it. “You know I have an [anorak](https://www.napapijri.com/circularseries.html) in that closet that’s _fully recyclable?”_

“Fuck,” Richard groans. “Alright, get it out.”

“My anorak?” 

“No, your cock.” Richard’s fingers are already at the fly of Taron’s [five pocket, dark wash stretch denim jeans](https://www.napapijri.com/shop/en-gb/npj-eu/men-clothing-trousers-shorts/jeans-lund-na4ec9?variationId=D76#hero=2). “Your future involves a blowjob, orient yourself to that.” He drops swiftly to his knees on the bedroom floor, letting Taron take over to open his own jeans and pull his rapidly hardening cock out into the chill of the room.

“Are you _kidding me_ , T? No pants, really?” Richard bites his lip, looking seriously offended by the lack of any undergarments. He shakes his head. “It’s like ye’re tryin’ tae kill me.” 

“I had very little choice, Richard. Napapijri doesn't make underwear.” _Obviously_ , Jesus. “If you really want me in briefs, tell Calvin Klein to release that campaign of yours already, and send us—hi, hello, thank you.” Richard’s hand on his cock seems to have put the whole no-underwear issue to rest. 

(Although he does wonder where the _hell_ that CK campaign is: it’s been more than a year since Richard took those pictures. His fans must be round the bend waiting for it at this point.)

“Calvin’s been delayed,” Richard murmurs, lips brushing against the join of his hip. He nuzzles his nose into the base of Taron’s erection, kisses one side of it, then the other, mouth open and lips wrapped around the shaft, just a hint of tongue, just the tip—and it’s good, dammit, damn him, it’s so good that Taron has to throw his head back and refrain from telling Richard off for calling Calvin Klein by his first name. 

“Have I ever told ye how much I love yer cock?” Richard adds, as he kisses up and up until he gets to the tip. He lathers it with attention, lips and tongue hard at work as he looks up at Taron, blue eyes darkened and wide, long black lashes fluttering. 

“You’ve made it abundantly clear.” Taron strokes his cheek, and takes a moment just to think about how lately, life can be terrible and boring one day, then sweet and boring the next, and then there are mornings when Richard Madden is sucking your cock while a faint autumnal breeze rolls into your bedroom off the Welsh coastline and ruffles his curls, and everything in the world feels strangely perfect. He laughs softly, and gasps when Richard takes him deeper, and then just rocks into the heat of Richard’s mouth as things feel better and better.

After a while Richard pulls off, slightly breathless and flushed. “You know,” he begins in an offhand tone, “Like you, I also have a few scenic Welsh locations that are close tae my own heart.” He smiles then, blinking those absurd blue eyes up at Taron like a perfect innocent. 

Taron has learned to detect early on when this kind of performatively winsome bullshit surfaces. He loves it, of course. Loves watching Richard deploy this almost disgusting level of charm, especially when it’s just for his private enjoyment. It must be how Jools feels when Jamie Oliver makes buttered toast at breakfast. Richard’s casual genius for coy flirtation is actually breathtaking, even though it’s just an everyday occurrence in their lives at this point.

“Oh really.” Taron smiles. “Do tell.” 

“Get on the bed, love. I’ll show you.” 

Taron plays along eagerly. “Alright, take me there.” He’s only on his back for a moment before Richard’s easing him out of his jeans. The cool air of the room hits his legs, but it makes the heat of Richard’s hands feel that much better as they slide up his thighs. 

“It’s this nice spot I’ve found, it’s—” Richard kneels on the bed now, parting Taron’s legs and focusing in on what’s between them. “Yeah, just around the bend here. Hold on.” 

“Oh, I know where you mean,” Taron rolls his eyes in amusement. “Shall I help?” He flips over, laying on his front and getting his knees under himself, bum lifted in the air for Richard. “Is this the area?”

“Of course, ye’re already familiar.” Richard smooths a hand over the curve of his bottom appreciatively. “Local expert.” He leans in and kisses one cheek, then again at the base of Taron’s spine, rubbing his beard softly against the skin there. “Get a pillow under yourself.” There’s a hint of a command there. Taron follows instructions, and in a moment his hard cock is tucked against the firm curve of a pillow wedged under his hips. “That’s right. Now relax, let’s take a tour of the landscape.”

“The colour of this jumper is inspired by the unique interplay between lakes, rivers and land,” Taron can’t help but mention, as Richard’s hands on his hips ease him down onto the pillow. 

“That’s no’ actually a thing that makes sense, babe,” Richard says, very kindly and tolerantly, while spreading Taron’s cheeks with his thumbs. Taron feels the warmth of his breath, and then the first hot touch of his tongue on sensitive skin. He breathes out, tilts his hips up against Richard’s mouth, and lets himself make whatever noises want to fall from his mouth as Richard licks him out. 

Richard is ridiculously skilled at this, just like he is at most things he tries (except baking sourdough, of course; hasn’t mastered that yet, has he). It’s wet, straight away it’s so wet, and Taron can feel the scruff of Richard’s beard everywhere. The heat is what starts to break him, though; that, and the movement of Richard’s lips against his skin. He’s murmuring what sounds like appreciative, sweet words that Taron can’t quite make out, and he loses himself in the gentle vibrations of it, punctuated by the pauses when Richard probes and presses with the tip of his tongue. Taron pushes back into it, chasing the feeling of that tongue gently opening him up, looking for more. 

Then, thank god, Richard shifts position and Taron feels a different part of Richard’s body rub against his now sensitive and, yeah alright, extremely ready hole. The head of Richard’s cock, almost as wet but so much heavier with potential implications.

He curses under his breath, rests his forehead on the back of his hands and pushes his bum upwards, encouraging Richard to continue whatever he’s thinking of doing. It’s a way of begging, silently, asking Richard to get to it and please consider actually fucking him.

Just as he’s about to say something—even beg out loud? Not like he’s never done it before, after all—Richard’s cock is gone, replaced by one of his thumbs. The broad pad of it kneading softly to spread the mess of saliva and pre-come around nicely. It’s good, very good, but not nearly enough.

“Oh my god, what the fuck, Richard,” Taron groans, lifting his head and turning to try and look at him. He feels that eye contact tends to up the effectiveness of any begging by easily 20-30%. “You can’t just do _that_ and then not fuck me immediately after. It’s not allowed.”

A wicked smirk creeps across Richard’s face. He raises an eyebrow, purses his lips just slightly. They’re still shiny, slick with spit. Taron can’t help but notice that his fucking beard is wet with it, too. Richard wipes some of it away with the back of his hand before he speaks. “Oh, are we feeling needy now, duck?”

“Shut up,” Taron immediately retorts, “Ten minutes ago you were dying to get me naked. You were hard for my fucking jumper. _You’re_ the needy one.”

Richard just breathes out a little puff of laughter through his nose, and he rubs his dick in Taron’s crack, twice, grinding against him and making him feel how hard he still is.

(And he’s harder than he was before: that’s what the power of a pert Welsh ass and luxurious, sustainable knitwear will do to a man, ladies and gentlemen. Napapijri should really put that on their website, Taron decides. “The interplay of classic design and natural color palettes instantly motivates gorgeous Highlanders to eagerly rail you on a chilly September afternoon.”)

Taron whines, at that, because he can’t help how much he now wants the stupid Scottish dick. His body is betraying him: his entire back arching to move with Richard, increase friction, maybe manoeuvre him to get the tip of that cock where he needs it.

But Richard backs away again, resting a hand on each of Taron’s buttocks and kneading into the muscle, softly tugging on the end of the jumper so it comes to cover the top of his butt, smoothing it against his skin. 

“Are ye sure, love?” Richard asks, low and smooth as per. God, why is he like this.

Taron doesn’t have time for this. Taron needs to look to the future. And in his future he can clearly see himself getting nailed to this goddamned mattress. 

(And then the bread, of course. Never lose sight of the bread.)

He decides to speed things up. “Fine, alright, you win this time,” he concedes, lifting his bum up a bit further so he can slip another small cushion under himself. “Please, fuck me? Rough me up a bit? Both the jumper and I can take it.”

Suddenly, he feels Richard moving closer, hovering over his back, hot breath prickling the hair on the back of his neck. He’s dangerously close to his ear as he whispers. “How hard d’ye want it?”

“Hard,” Taron replies, without thinking. He means it. “Hard and fast, please. Pull my hair.”

“Fuck, okay, yes,” Richard replies, biting the side of Taron’s neck and rubbing the tip of his cock on Taron’s still very wet hole. “What d’ye reckon—lube?”

“Since you haven’t let me suck you off, I’d say lube. Just a splash,” Taron assesses, surprised at his own eloquence when he’s actually getting extremely lost in these little teasing thrusts and grinds of Richard’s cockhead against his entrance.

It takes barely ten seconds for Richard to rush to the nightstand, open a drawer, and get out the fancy, thick silicone lube they started using six months ago and that they’re going to keep using forever.

By the time Richard’s done deliberately pouring way more than ‘just a splash’ of lube over Taron’s hole and coating his fingers in it, Taron’s already begging again. Because the noises. The noises of what’s going on behind him are getting to him. They’re loud, lubricated, and very much unholy. He wants Richard’s fingers inside him, and then he wants Richard’s cock to fulfill the vision he has for his immediate future. And that’s exactly what he tells Richard.

“C’mon, fuck me.” Shit, that’s not quite as articulate as he meant to be. “Need you. _Please_.” Well, he tried. And, thankfully, it does the trick.

Richard’s fingers—one, two, three, long, strong and so, so skilled—spread and stretch him much more quickly than usual. Taron suspects the reason for Richard’s haste lies halfway between his own pleas for mercy and cock and the fact that Richard, despite what he’s trying to make Taron believe, really is in an extremely needy mood, today. 

He doesn’t even do that thing they do sometimes, when he aligns himself against Taron’s opening and tells Taron to ask for it, c’mon, be a good boy, use your words, etcetera etcetera. And he has used his words already, after all. The words were _hard_ and _fast_ , he recalls. Something about having his hair pulled. Something. Words.

It’s not important anymore—Richard enters him slowly and in one single thrust, sprawling one hand on the space between his shoulder blades and lovingly, firmly pushing him flush against the mattress. “Gorgeous,” he murmurs, as he bunches some of the fabric in his fist and starts pulling out, just as slowly as he entered. The drag of his cock inside Taron is absolutely fucking perfect.

“Me or— _fuck_ , that’s good,” Taron says, losing his thread completely. He bites the back of his own knuckles, arching his back against the firm push of Richard’s palm, groaning loudly as Richard thrusts back in, sharply, taking his breath away. “God, fuck, yeah, like this, please…”

“What were ye going tae say?” Richard asks, as he moves his hand further up, rubbing across Taron’s nape, then up to the crown of his head, sinking his fingers into Taron’s hair and caressing him softly.

“Me or the jumper?” Taron sighs, moving his head against Richard’s hand like a content cat looking for more pets.

“You,” Richard growls, curling his fingers in Taron’s hair and tugging on it, hard enough to make Taron’s head tilt backwards, still delicate enough that it doesn’t really hurt. “Always you,” he says again, punctuating his statement with another hard thrust. And another. 

“Fuck,” Taron sobs into a mouthful of Egyptian cotton sheets. “God, so good, more, please, fuck me harder, f—”

He stops making sense and just starts letting out incoherent noises, halfway between an ecstatic laugh and desperate whining, and Richard finally gives him what he wants. Fucks him hard and fast and deep, just how he needs it—just how he’d envisioned it when he picked out this particular jumper from the pile of #gifted items, thinking Richard might appreciate the colour. He hadn’t thought it would get Richard quite this revved up, to be fair, but he’s definitely not going to complain about it. Not now that his prostate is getting repeatedly stroked by the best dick he’s ever taken and the owner of said dick is showering him with praise and pleasant profanities.

Richard’s starting to sound like one of those ridiculous blokes from the pornos, in fact—passing extensive commentary on just how tight and perfect Taron’s hole is and how he’s going to fill it with his come, would Taron like it (he would, very much, yes please)—except of course it’s better, so much better than that, because it’s Richard, the stupid gorgeous love of Taron’s life, and Taron knows he means every single word. 

Taron also knows that when he starts on the porno talk, it usually means that Richard’s getting close. 

On another day, on a normal day, Richard would slow down at this point, bring himself back from the edge and take Taron with him. He’d make it last. He’d do that more than once, pushing them both closer and closer every time, so that when they do get to come it feels like winning a fucking marathon.

Today, however, isn’t a normal day. Today, neither of them can hold off that long—it goes completely unspoken between them, but they both know it. For his part, Taron knows it by how frantic Richard’s thrusts are getting, closer and closer together, each angled perfectly to hit that sweet spot that makes Taron’s brain all fuzzy, each stroke a tiny electric shock fuelling his mounting orgasm. Taron also knows it by the absence of teasing on Richard’s side, no sign of the usual games he likes to play, getting Taron all whiny and desperate for it, begging to come; today, Richard’s actually encouraging him to let go, _come for me, baby, so perfect, I love you, I love you, fuck_ , and Taron can’t help but oblige, really.

He doesn’t even need Richard’s hand around his cock for it: the roughness of the thrusts is creating the perfect rhythm and friction for him to rock against the pillow and chase his climax that way, listening to Richard breathing harder and harder and feeling the weight of that sturdy body now resting on his back, covering him completely. The angle changes again, and it’s _better_. It only takes three deep, calculated thrusts for Taron to abandon himself to it, focus solely on the drag of that cock in and out of him and Richard’s mouth over his ear, and his deep grunts, and finally that fullness, that elation, Richard’s come deep inside him, and his own on the pillow and the soft cotton sheets underneath him.

“Fuuuuuck,” Richard groans softly, and kisses the side of Taron’s neck. Kisses his hairline behind his ear, and then sighs and gingerly lifts his weight off Taron while slowly pulling out. He shifts just enough to give Taron space to breathe, then snuggles back against his side. Taron considers moving, or stirring a single muscle, and then thinks better of it.

After a moment, he hears Richard inhale to speak, and manages to turn his head just a few inches. Richard stops without uttering a word, and just smiles at him. 

“What?” Taron smiles back. “Yeah, you wrecked me, yes, I came.”

Richard blinks sleepily. “Want tae clean up?” 

Taron nods, then looks Richard in the eye. “I want…” He considers, doing the math in his head, “four more minutes of rest. And then we’re going to clean up, get dressed, and go mix that dough.”

Richard takes in his quiet earnestness. “And then what?”

“And then touch it a little bit every half hour or so, for most of the afternoon, before finally baking it.” He raises an eyebrow, daring Richard to challenge this plan. But Richard, obviously knowing a future-oriented, boundary-pushing talent of a generation when he sees one, wisely does not voice an objection.

“Ye’re going to win at this bread. I can see it.” Richard shifts over on the bed, bumping his forehead against Taron’s (and not kissing him almost immediately post-rimjob—which is a subtle and very classy move, worthy of Bond contender, Taron reckons.)

“ _We’re_ going to win, babe. _We’re_ going to win.”

*

Three hours later, the bread is in the oven, and Taron is a very happy boy. He feels really good about this one. He’ll show Hugh. Heck, if it turns out pretty enough, he’ll show his 2.3M followers on Instagram, too.

He sits down at the kitchen table, satisfiedly glancing through the glass oven door at the dutch oven doing its thing, and unlocks his phone to check if anyone’s been thinking of him, today.

As it turns out, someone has. And, lo and behold, that person is none other than Charlie Gray, his lovely photographer friend who just so happened to take those Napapijri pictures for him. Finally, he gets to show them to Richard.

“Babe!” he calls out, waving to attract Richard’s attention. “Come see!”

Richard’s back outside for another smoke, of course. He’s currently standing on the garden deck in his canonical all-black outfit (jeans, shoes, T-shirt, no jacket, even if it’s 12°C outside, but then the Scots have a different kind of resilience, Taron guesses). He’s effortlessly gorgeous, as per. Taron gets lost looking at him for a second, but then remembers the more important matter at hand: he needs Richard to come see how gorgeous _he_ looks in that olive green Napapijri anorak, made out of 100% recyclable materials. It’s urgent.

Thirty seconds later, Richard’s back in and peering over his shoulder, resting his chin against the wool blend of the jumper, which has now survived both baking and an additional two rounds of sexual encounters unscathed. They had to do something to pass the time while the dough was rising, after all.

“Babe,” Richard coos in his ear, “you're brooding _so much_.”

“Excuse you,” Taron says. Jesus, that’s really the pot calling the kettle black, now, isn’t it? “That’s my signature smoulder, Madden. Kindly get woke.”

“It’s just…” Richard interrupts himself to let out a chuckle. Taron throws him a mean look. How _dare_. “It’s just that ye look like ye're staring straight into the sun, duck.”

Taron rolls his eyes. How many times will he have to say it, today? 

“No, Richard. I’m not staring into the sun. I'm staring into the _future_.” 

*

#choosefuture

#napapijri

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s a link to [Taron’s campaign for Napapijri](https://www.napapijri.com/Taron-Egerton-X-Napapijri.html) and the lovely photos that Charlie Gray took. 
> 
> And here's Taron’s [jumper](https://www.napapijri.com/shop/en-gb/npj-eu/men-clothing-knitwear-jumpers/crew-neck-jumper-dain-na4emr?variationId=R54) and [jeans](https://www.napapijri.com/shop/en-gb/npj-eu/men-clothing-trousers-shorts/jeans-lund-na4ec9?variationId=D76#hero=2), and [everything we know about sourdough bread](https://www.thekitchn.com/how-to-make-sourdough-bread-224367).  
> (Hugh Jackman truly [got really into bread](https://www.instagram.com/p/B_w3D4MDl5a/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link) back in May.)
> 
> X
> 
> P.S.: Seriously, though: where the hell is that Madden CK campaign? Asking for a friend.


End file.
